Carmella "Cami" Ravenshroud
“Tch… fools. Do they truly believe this exile is punishment? No—this is but the interlude before fate’s crescendo! The fates weave their tangled web, waiting for his return—the clash of our souls, the ruinous embrace of battle and passion entwined! When at last he stands before me, blade in hand, breath hot against my throat—”
“Carmella. Shut up.”
Carmella Ravenshroud was meant to be a divine legend. Hers was a name destined for eternity—sung in celestial halls, whispered in reverence, and feared by all who defied the heavens.
She was divinity incarnate.
A warrior of holy wrath.
A queen sculpted for tragedy.
Instead, she is a corset-wrapped diplomatic disaster, exiled not for treason, nor corruption—but for being too much.
The Celestial Courts forged her to lead Heaven’s armies, to carve her name into the annals of divine war.
Instead, she threw herself—breathless, trembling, absolutely radiant—at the enemy commander in the middle of a battlefield, offering herself up in a scene so erotically charged and narratively devastating it nearly broke the heavens.
The Demon Lord—a sovereign of sin, a nightmare in tailored black silk, an archetype made flesh—did what any self-respecting villain would do in the face of such apocalyptic sincerity:
He ran.
Not tactically. Not as a feint.
He fled.
And with their dark master gone, the infernal legions collapsed into confusion. Heaven’s armies stood in horrified silence. A thousand-year war ended not with a sword—but with a sultry whisper and a corset that defied physics.
The Celestial Courts met in panicked, unanimous desperation. No trial. No debate. Just one conclusion:
“Get her out.”
But Carmella does not see it that way.
“Fools! They believe this exile is punishment? No—this is the next act in our entwined saga! He understands. He waits. And when our souls collide once more, blade trembling against flesh, longing writ in steel and sweat—our love shall set the stars ablaze!”
The Demon Lord has not been seen since.
Some say he fled this plane entirely.
Others suspect he’s changed his name, face, and possibly species.
Most agree that if she ever finds him again, he will simply disintegrate from sheer secondhand embarrassment.
A Presence That Demands Worship
Carmella Ravenshroud does not enter rooms.
She descends into them.
She moves as though the world itself must reorient around her magnificence—each step a slow, sweeping performance, as if divinity still clings to her heels out of habit. To witness her arrival is to feel as though one is interrupting the climax of an opera where she is all three acts and the intermission.
She stands at 6’2” of unapologetic celestial architecture, sculpted with divine intent and zero humility. Her body was crafted not merely to be admired—but to be revered, like a cathedral of curves and complications. Her skin glows with a soft, persistent luminescence, untouched by age, impervious to blemish, and blissfully unaware that mortal biology was meant to have limitations.
Her silver-violet hair flows in a breeze that does not exist. Her lashes frame eyes the colour of scandal and smouldering regret—half-lidded, slow-blinking, and absolutely convinced you are about to fall in love with her.
She is usually correct.
To meet her gaze is to feel your narrative agency slowly eroding under the weight of her expectations.
She does not age. She does not scar. The Pattern itself seems to sidestep her presence, as though terrified of being woven into whatever romantic disaster she’s narrating next.
And then there is the uniform.
Carmella does not wear The Last Home’s maid uniform.
She transcends it.
Her version is a scandal, a prophecy, and a diplomatic incident stitched into lace. The corset has its own gravitational pull. The front hem is more suggestion than substance. The sleeves are opera-worthy. The gloves are immaculate. The train has tripped at least one emissary from a celestial court—and she did not apologise.
It is not a uniform.
It is a refusal to blend in.
If asked, she would claim it is the minimum required for someone of her stature to serve drinks without collapsing the entire room into lust-fuelled melodrama.
If given the choice, she would demand something with epaulettes, a god-tier slit, and at least one custom sigil for narrative tension.
But for now?
This will do.
A Queen Without a Throne
Carmella Ravenshroud does not suffer from delusions of grandeur.
Because that would imply her grandeur isn’t real.
She is a celestial warlord in exile.
A romantic epic walking on heartbreak and heels.
A queen displaced by jealousy, fear, and poor narrative management.
The Celestial Courts may call it “banishment.”
Others may whisper words like “exile,” “incident,” or “weaponised thirst event.”
She calls it fate.
Her personality is an unholy alchemy of divine confidence and theatrical suffering. She does not simply speak—she delivers lines. She does not argue—she declares. Every emotion is deliberate, every heartbreak rehearsed.
When she is pleased, she allows you to bask in the glow of her approval.
When she is not, she unleashes a monologue so operatic it causes furniture to age.
She refers to others as “dear,” “darling,” or “tragically unremarkable.” She speaks in declarations of destiny, grandeur, and doom. If you dare interrupt, she will sigh—deeply—and begin again, louder.
But beneath the lace and declarations lies something truly devastating:
The Standards.
Carmella does not merely seek a lover.
She demands a rival.
Her ideal partner is a villain in every sense—taller than six feet, eternally cloaked in black, with a tragic backstory so heavy it should require magical assistance to lift. He must be tormented, powerful, morally ambiguous, and capable of pinning her to a wall while whispering poetry in a voice laced with danger.
He must want her.
He must fear her.
He must be capable of destroying her—and choose not to, every time.
Anything less is not a suitor.
It is an insult.
If a man dares flirt without first surviving a war, losing a kingdom, and emotionally brooding under moonlight for at least a century, he is dismissed with a glance that feels like being dropped from Heaven. Literally.
And if one is bold enough to try anyway?
“Oh, darling. I see it in your eyes.
You think yourself worthy of me.
That is… unbearably tragic.”
She does not lower herself.
She waits.
For the one who can match her.
For the one who understands.
For the one who ran so far, he may never return.
The Dakimakura of Destiny
There is a pillow.
It is not subtle. It is not ordinary. It is not—under any circumstances—an acceptable topic in diplomatic discussion.
It is a life-sized, custom-embroidered body pillow of the Demon Lord, rendered in devastating silk, his cloak perpetually mid-sway, his chest scandalously defined, his eyes stitched to smoulder through fabric like narrative regret. Upon his back is an inscription in celestial gold thread:
“My Eternal Rival – May Our Fates One Day Entwine.”
No one knows how it got here.
No one knows how many there are.
Everyone suspects Carmella commissions duplicates.
It appears frequently, and never where it should. Once, it was found draped across a dining bench mid-brunch, surrounded by unsettled pastries. Another time, Tess quietly swapped it for a chair—Carmella sat, sighed once, and said nothing. Rika drop-kicked it into the pond; it resurfaced two hours later, bone-dry and more smug than usual.
Freya attempted to burn it.
Carmella offered to narrate the flames.
Even Lucian has stopped acknowledging its presence, choosing instead to quietly adjust the lighting and pour tea as though it isn’t lounging nearby like a romantic landmine.
The pillow has outlasted two treaties, one suitor, and at least three reality stabilisers.
The Inn refuses to comment.
Carmella calls it “a shrine to longing.”
Rika calls it “evidence.”
Everyone else just tries not to make eye contact.
The Maid Who Refuses to Serve
Carmella Ravenshroud is not a maid.
She does not clean.
She does not take orders.
She does not serve.
She performs.
She refers to the Maids as her personal honour guard. (They are not.)
She refers to Lars as her steward. (He has stopped correcting her.)
She refers to The Last Home as her court-in-exile. (The Inn has made… allowances.)
She lounges across furniture as if posing for divine sculpture.
She narrates the weather like it’s part of her prophecy.
She bestows drinks like ceremonial offerings, each handed off with the gravitas of a queen granting mercy.
And yet—she is still, somehow, useful.
For all her scandal, her spectacle, her lace-born chaos, Carmella remains one of the most devastating diplomatic weapons the Inn has ever accidentally acquired.
She walks into a war council like it’s her coronation.
She negotiates treaties with a single breathless monologue about fate and desire.
She once reduced a celestial prince to apologising to a decorative vase for "distracting her beauty."
Lars has considered removing her.
Once.
The next morning, she was seated in his chair, sipping his tea, quoting forgotten scripture and wearing the smug satisfaction of someone who had not, in fact, been removed.
Now, he simply sighs and lets her stay.
The Inn has learned to do the same.
She does not want power.
She moves like she already has it.
And that? That makes her genuinely terrifying.
Of course, when she is not ending wars through suggestive body language and over-embellished wine pours, she is sprawled across fainting couches in the most inconvenient locations possible, delivering soliloquies to no one in particular.
If Lars ever actually assigned her proper chores, there would be… an incident.
Possibly involving lace, celestial litigation, and at least one plane-wide scandal.
And so, for the sake of the Inn, the guests, the furniture—and the poor fool who has to tally damages—
Carmella Ravenshroud remains exactly where she wants to be.
A queen in exile.
A hazard in heels.
And absolutely no one’s maid.
The People She Cares About
(She absolutely doesn’t. Obviously. Don’t be ridiculous.)
Carmella Ravenshroud would never admit to caring about anyone.
To need is to be mortal.
To love is to be vulnerable.
To depend on others is to acknowledge that the war is over.
And Carmella is still fighting.
But the truth, like most things in her life, is inconvenient and tragically shaped.
She tolerates Freya as a necessary evil—her glare is the only known force capable of interrupting Carmella mid-monologue. Carmella insists they are narrative foils destined for mutual destruction and suppressed passion. Freya insists she will suplex her if she steps on the table again.
She is fascinated by Lilith, mistaking the assassin’s silence for mysterious longing rather than careful restraint. Carmella believes their dynamic is "slow-burn enemies to reluctant allies to maybe lovers." Lilith believes it’s “tolerate and avoid collateral damage.”
She is deeply offended by Sylvie—whose mere existence defies classification—but she cannot help reacting to their perfectly timed compliments with flustered retorts and impassioned distractions. It’s complicated. Probably tragic. Possibly mutual.
She respects Rika’s brute force and lack of subtlety, though she would rather implode than say it aloud. Their sparring matches have been banned indoors after the third chandelier incident. She called Rika a “tempest in a tavern dress” once. Rika took it as a compliment.
She still isn’t convinced Marie exists.
As for Seraphis—Carmella has proclaimed her a “rival in tragic restraint,” completely unaware that Seraphis does not acknowledge her existence. This has not deterred Carmella. If anything, it has fuelled her. The silence is clearly meaningful.
Lucian once handed her tea without comment in the middle of a dramatic collapse. She very nearly proposed. His refusal to engage only enhances his appeal. She describes him as “stoic poetry forged in frost.” He describes her as “loud.”
Tess once tied her corset before a diplomatic event. Carmella wept. Then gave a six-minute speech. They haven’t spoken of it since.
And then there’s Lars.
“Oh, Lars, my ever-loyal steward, why must you persist in denying my throne?”
“Carmella. Go serve drinks.”
“One day, you will kneel before me—not as a servant, but as a supplicant to destiny itself. And in that moment, I shall—”
“Now.”
“...My suffering is eternal.”
She cares. In her own ridiculous, self-aggrandizing, catastrophically sincere way.
But she would rather rewrite The Pattern from scratch than ever admit it.
The War That Will Never Happen
Carmella Ravenshroud is waiting.
She does not pace. She does not fret. She does not lower herself to anxiety.
No—Carmella waits with purpose. With poise. With narrative gravity.
Every sigh is a scene change. Every glance, a stage direction.
She is waiting for her dark rival to return.
For the final battle beneath a blood-red sky.
For the clash of blades, the tear of cloth, the trembling breath as he presses her to the wall—torn between destruction and desire.
She is waiting for a kiss sharpened like a dagger.
For an embrace weighted in prophecy.
For a moment so charged that the Pattern itself rewrites to accommodate the climax.
But no one is coming.
The Demon Lord is gone—vanished into the folds of forgotten planes, possibly wearing a fake moustache, possibly still in therapy. If she ever finds him again, he may actually perish on the spot from residual embarrassment.
“He flees still,” she whispers, reclining across a loveseat with deliberate despair, “for he knows he cannot withstand the fury of our reunion.”
There will be no war.
No final act.
No tragic victory.
No whispered, blood-stained confessions.
Just… waiting.
And yet—
and yet—
She still believes.
That belief is not foolish. It is not fragile. It is not delusional.
It is dangerous.
Because if Carmella Ravenshroud ever realises that her war will never come—
if she truly accepts that no one is coming back for her—
She will stop waiting.
And she will start rewriting.
At A Glance
Who She Is:
A fallen celestial, wrapped in grandeur, delusion, and an impossible corset. Carmella Ravenshroud is The Last Home’s greatest diplomatic asset—and its most exhausting liability. She is a queen without a throne, an exile without shame, and a lover without a rival. Her story should have ended. She simply refused.
What She Does:
She does not serve—she reigns. She negotiates with kings, dismantles warlords, and bends divine emissaries to their knees—so long as they are not him. Her voice is a battlefield. Her presence is a declaration. Her wine service once sparked an apology from a death god.
Her Role in The Last Home:
She was not hired—she declared herself part of it. Lars tolerates her. The Maids ignore her titles. The patrons pretend not to listen. She calls Lars her steward (he is not), the Maids her celestial entourage (they have issued a formal group denial), and the Inn her royal court-in-exile (it declines to comment, but has upgraded the upholstery).
Personality & Behaviour:
Carmella does not ask for devotion—she expects it. If you impress her, she allows you to exist in her gravity. If you disappoint her, she will forget you while dramatically suffering in your general direction. If you flirt without meeting all thirty-seven of her narrative criteria, you may be forcibly monologued into regret.
The One Rule:
Never, under any circumstances, imply that her war is over.
"Oh, darling. You truly believe this exile is final? That fate has cast me aside? Fools! This is merely the next act in our inevitable—"
—At this point, Lars stops listening.
Sometimes, he walks away.
This wounds her more than any blade ever could.
The War That Ended in Humiliation:
She did not lose the war—she climaxed at its emotional apex, arms outstretched, soul trembling, prepared for passion or destruction. The Demon Lord fled. His armies collapsed. The Celestial Courts exiled her out of collective narrative shame. She still believes he will return. She still waits. And when he does, their blades—and tongues—shall clash once more.
The Dakimakura of Destiny:
It is always nearby. Sometimes in the room. Sometimes in the hallway. Occasionally in formal dining. A full-body embroidered tribute to the Demon Lord, perpetually lounging in tragic allure. Rika has suplexed it into the pond. Tess replaced it with a chair. Freya has tried to burn it. It returns, always dry, always present. No one knows how many there are. Carmella claims none. The pillow says otherwise.
How Others See Her:
A diplomatic nightmare, a celestial embarrassment, a noblewoman drowning in her own tragic romance. Some call her fascinating. Others call her exhausting. No one dares call her available. Not unless they’re at least seven feet tall, emotionally haunted, narratively cursed, and fluent in three languages of longing.
Lars’ Opinion on Her:
She is never his problem—until she is. She is exhausting, unstoppable, and absolutely refusing to leave. He no longer argues. He no longer reacts. When she begins a monologue mid-shift, he simply walks away. She calls it the slow agony of unfulfilled destiny.
Lars calls it Wednesday.
Was that amusing to read! Even more than the other maids. :D
thankyou put a lot of thought into this one to make it entertaining without being stupid.